Hunting the Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page B

the crew’s mess. Several weathered men sat on benches before varnished plywood-topped dining tables drinking beer, coffee, and soda pop. Some read paperbacks with lurid covers that Billy noted had Spanish titles. As he stepped inside and out of the searing heat, his eyes quickly adapted to the dimness. Crewmen gaped at him. A few made little mouth movements that suggested a smile. Most stared blankly. He forced a grin and said, “I’m supposed to report to the captain.”
    The fishermen sat uncomprehending until Billy asked in halting high school Spanish, “¿Dónde está el capitán?”
    A thin young man, about Billy’s age, stood and moved to face him. He had long, wavy dark hair tied in a ponytail, and wore tight black jeans and a startling white T-shirt with the Grateful Dead rock band logo silk-screened across the chest. He stopped a foot in front of Billy and looked him up and down. He answered with deliberate cool and a challenging grin, “He’s on the bridge. You a surfer, dude?”
    “I ride some waves.”
    “Awesome!” he said, mimicking surfer slang.
    As Billy turned to leave he gave the Latino kid a raised thumb-and-pinky surfer’s shaka salute. Continuing the game, he said, “Thanks, bro.”
    He climbed the exterior companionway to the wide bridge that projected forward of the enclosed wheelhouse. He saw a deckhand installing huge twenty-power spotting binoculars on a gimbaled mount. Billy walked up to him and said, “I’m to report to Captain Gandara.”
    The man pointed inside the wheelhouse. Billy carefully placed his surfboard on the deck, and carrying his gear, he entered. Beside the huge first mate stood a bearded man, obviously the captain. He was as tall as Santos but thinner. He had the lean, tense-muscled body of an Olympic fencer. Billy noticed his dark, carefully trimmed beard first. The man’s facial hairs were so tightly curled they reminded him of coarse steel wool. As an artist, Billy realized it was the blackness about his lips and chin that made his teeth appear so white. His eyes, in contrast, were light green, almost like a cat’s. He wore sharply creased chino trousers, a starched blue work shirt with epaulettes, and low-cut white leather tennis shoes. His nose was sharp and aristocratic. The captain’s hands held a parallel rule on a nautical chart. They were large and powerful. Billy imagined them gripping a saber.
    Gandara looked up from the map and stared at the new crewman. Then his attention returned to the chart. Billy knew he was facing a man who would take no disrespect from another. Here was a man who had earned, with knife, pistol, and cunning, the right to command Lucky Dragon .
    As Billy waited, he gazed about the bridge. He was impressed with the vast array of modern electronic gear—GPS receivers, color side-scanning fish-finding sonars, depth sounders, single sideband radios, autopilot, the latest Furuno radar scope, and a weather satellite fax machine. There were more marvels, but Billy’s limited experience with large-ship marine electronics kept him from comprehending their purpose. His eyes held on an old magnetic compass in its teak box, mounted before the helmsman’s wheel; an archaic reminder that the forces of nature could still be depended on.
    The captain stuck a drafting pencil in an electric sharpener, ground a fine point, and drew a precise line along the rule plotting a course on the chart. He replaced the pencil in the sharpener, turned to the mate, and said, “We’ll head northeast out of Suva to here.”
    Again he honed the pencil point and added a dot on the chart. “About here, we’ll send Mr. Lessing aloft for a look-see. It’s unlikely he’ll spot dolphins this far to the west, but we’ve been lucky before.”
    The mate nodded his understanding. With an abrupt movement the captain turned to face Billy.
    “Let me have your passport, and then open your pack on the deck,” he commanded.
    Billy placed his gear on the floor, zipped